


How I Stand, How I Fall

by jesseofthenorth



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint suffers a possibly career ending injury he neglects to resign or even tell anyone, he just runs and tries not to look back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I Stand, How I Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I owe great thanks to dugindeep for the excellent and speedy beta work.
> 
> I also owe great thanks to azuremonky for the terrific artwork, which can be found separately [here](http://thefixedfoot.livejournal.com/40858.html)
> 
> And thanks again and again to shinysylver and somehowunbroken the mods at [Marvel-Bang](http://marvel-bang.livejournal.com/) for all their patience and hard work

[ ](http://s1120.beta.photobucket.com/user/jesseofthenorth1/library/lj%20crap)

 

 

  
  
  
Clint goes on a solo mission when SHIELD is spread thin.He is mostly working with the Avengers these days, but suddenly every bad guy everywhere seems to have picked this week to push their own agenda. So Hawkeye is tapped as marksman for a mission populated with junior agents and low level targets. It's supposed to be a simple take down; in and out. What Clint does is usually simple, but it's almost never easy.  
  
He hits his target right between the eyes just like he's supposed to, but before the guy hits the pavement the shit hits the fan. Hawkeye has a moment where he has to make the kind of choice that always gets him in trouble; his own safety or that of someone else. He doesn't even think about it because Clint Barton is not the kind of man who put his own well-being ahead of someone else, especially not a junior SHEILD agent who looks young enough to be in high school and clearly shouldn't even be out in the field.  
  
Barton decides he has the experience to get them both out alive and wishes not for the first time that his ear piece had a volume he could turn down so the yelling in his ear was less distracting.  
  
“Barton get your ass back here!”  
  
“Sure thing, Woo. Just as soon as I get Fender.”  
  
Woo is not the first agent at SHIELD to respond with a "GOD DAMMIT BARTON!"  
  
Agent Fender is down but trying to get back on his feet. Barton slips in fast and gets the kid up. He has a second to decide between finding cover or making a run. Clint decides on a run for the chopper rather than a stealth approach. The area is getting hotter and the kid is leaking pretty bad. They'll have to take their chances. He hopes the fading light will give them some advantage.  
  
  
Clint throws the kid over one shoulder and runs as fast as he can. He almost makes it too. Just a few feet from safety, Barton takes a hit and it knocks him off his feet. He feels something punch into his arm and his hand folds under him when he goes down, Fender's added weight driving him down hard into the pavement. He thinks he hears something break on contact. There areother no other choices and no time for anything else so Clint drags the kid back up, and takes off again. He is a little surprised that his arm doesn't hurt.  
  
The pitch of the helicopters engine is already changing when Barton drops Fender into the open door of the chopper and awkwardly climbs in after. It's a bitch pulling himself inside one handed but he's having a little trouble making his hand work. Woo starts hyperventilating the second he sees the mess Hawkeye's shooting arm is in.  
  
“Coulson is going to _kill_ me!” It's the first time Clint has ever seen the guy panic. Clint looks down at his hand thinking it can't be that bad, he barely feels it.  
  
Huh. His hand and arm actually looks pretty gross. He lets Woo wrap a pressure bandage around the mess, not thinking about anything except that they are alive and heading out of the hot zone. Alive is enough right now, he'll deal with anything else later.  
  
Clint passes out about 15 seconds later.  
  
He comes to once, surrounded by doctors and nurses. He smells disinfectant and blood and vomit and his arm is on fucking fire and all he wants to do is get away from the pain.  
  
“I'm not sure we can save it.' he hears and can't figure anything out because he feels the warm golden flush of morphine in his veins and he was never all that great with narcotics.  
  
He hears “We-” something something” amputate,” and freaks out completely. Thrashing and flailing and screaming. Pure blind panic floods him for the first time in his adult life and Clint wants only to get away.  
  
He feels hands holding him down and something duller invading his veins, flattening him out while he tries to scream “No! Not that! Don't you take my-” and the world drops behind a curtain of solid black unconsciousness. His last thought is of pure terror.  
  
  
  
Clint comes awake with a snap. It feels like not even a second has passed since he went under but that's always the way it is with anesthetic, for him anyway. It's part of the reason why he always says no when he has a choice, why Clint hates having surgery and - shit!  
  
Panic clutches at him with sharp claws and Clint reaches for his right arm before he has a chance to think about what he will do if its not there.  
  
The relief is sharp flood of ice in his guts when Clint gets a handful of gauze instead of empty space. An _armful_ of gauze in fact. He feels his way down before he can lose his nerve. Checking for a stump and finding instead a hand shaped lump of gauze at the end of his arm. He laughs weakly, he has no other response to this level of relief.  
  
“Oh! Agent Barton, you are awake!” a woman says “Oh dear! You probably shouldn't be touching that!” the voice says and soft hands pull his fingers gently away from where his left hand is clutching his right arm. He lets her, and smiles. The darkness comes up to meet him more gently this time.  
  
  
He stays in a drug induced haze until the the doc deems him ready and they start weening him off the high octane shit. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but his head is clearer and Clint is glad for that. His hand is so tightly swathed in dressings he can't move a finger. His arm is in a cast from above his elbow to his wrist. Just about the time he is drug free enough to notice that, he notices something else as well, no one has been by to see him. No Avengers, no Natasha and no Coulson. The only people he has seen since he's regained consciousness are SHIELD medical personnel.  
  
It's likely someone has been by while he was out of it or asleep. It seems like he does nothing but sleep. It isn't until he asks a nurse if any one has stopped in and he gets a hesitant shake of the head and a regretful look that Clint starts to freak out a little.  
  
It's weird and unexpected and suddenly he needs to have a conversation with the doc, find out when he is getting busted loose.  
  
“So Doc, what's the score on my arm?” there's no point in beating around the bush right? He needs to know when he can get back to work.  
  
“Well Agent Barton the damage is extensive,” the doc says and looks at Clint's chart. He shuffles his feet and looks away. It occurs to Clint the man is uncomfortable.  
  
“I figured” Clint tells him. “My arm hurts like a bitch and I can't really move my fingers much.” The truth is he can't move them at all. He's hoping that's because of all the bandages but the look on the doctors face is making him nervous. “ So how long?”  
  
“How long for what, Agent Barton?”  
  
“How long until I can get back to work.”  
  
A look of disbelief flashes across the doctor's face and Clint feels a sudden flush of cold, it's dread.  
  
“Well, Agent Barton, I'm not sure that you can.” the doctor tells him. “We'll have a look in a day or two but until the swelling and numbness goes down substantially we are going to have to place you on indefinite medical leave.”  
  
He might have said more, probably, God knows the doc loves to talk, but everything after 'indefinite medical leave' is a dull roar and all Clint can hear is the pulse pounding in his ears. After a while the doctor snaps the chart closed.  
  
“I have to finish my rounds but I will check back in tomorrow, answer any questions you have.” He stares and Clint thinks the guy is waiting for something but Clint cannot come up with a single coherent response, just sits there and tries to breath and not lose his shit. It's a near thing.  
  
After quietly freaking out for a couple of hours Clint decides the doctor is probably trying to scare him into behaving himself. Clint _has_ made a habit of being a total pain in the ass whenever he's in medical. Clint tries not to read anything too serious into the dull throb deep inside the bones that make up his shooting arm.  
  
He tries not to dwell, turns the TV on for a while then tries for some sleep and when that doesn't happen either he complains about the pain and the nurse gets him something with a little kick to it after dinner. It knocks him completely out and Clint manages to sleep through at almost 12 hours of the time he has to spend waiting to see what the doc has to say about his arm.  
  
The next morning on his rounds the doctor says nothing much has changed, asks if Clint has any questions and when Clint shakes his head no the doc tells him "The swelling should be down enough in a coupke of days to make a more thorough assesment" and moves on to the next room.  
  
The next day and a half are restless and unpleasant for Clint. The strain of not speculating about the state of his arm is not helped by the fact that there is nothing to do but stare at the TV and no one to talk to except the medical staff who clearly have better shit to be doing besides entertain him. Day time television is the same brainless shit it always _is_ and it doesn't do a damned thing to distract him.  
  
He mostly wishes Tasha or Coulson would show up to tell him what has been going on.  
  
They obviously have better shit to do too. Things must still really jumping out in the world. Even though its been almost a week . There isn't anything _really_ big on the news, but that doesn't mean much.He tells himself there could be epic shit to deal with that the news missed. It could be, right?  
  
By the time the doctor comes in to lift the bandages and look at his arm Clint is almost ready to climb the walls. He wants to move. He wants something to look at besides bad cable and gray concrete walls. He wants to get the hell out of here. He wants to eat a fucking hamburger. And he wants to track down his team and find out what the hell is going on.  
  
What ever else happens today he is getting the hell out of this bed and he going to find his god damned bow.  
  
He sticks to that thought right up until the moment when the doc lifts the last piece of gauze off his fingers and Clint is confronted with the sight of something that barely looks like a human hand. His smashed fingers are stretched flat across some kind of a fiber glass brace. They look like ground meat. There is so little sensation in the fingers themselves he had no idea until he saw it that he was even wearing a brace.  
  
His thumb is _destroyed_. The nail is gone and so is most of the skin with it. None of it hurts. His other fingers don't look as bad but he cant really think of them as better. Maybe... less destroyed?  
  
When the doc starts poking around in the mess Clint looks away and spends the whole time swallowing and trying to breath past the urge to puke. He almost doesn't make it. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose when he feels his gorge start to rise.  
  
He doesn't once tell himself it's not that bad. Clint knows that's a lie. People who lie to themselves in his line of work tend to end up really dead. Clint doesn't lie to himself. It's bad. Really bad.  
  
He doesn't feel any pain when they wrap his hand back up. He doesn't watch them do it either, just stares at the wall and waits for it to be over.  
  
When his hand is once a gain a bundle of pristine white bandages Clint looks at the doc and waits for him to say something. The guy just shakes his head, says “I will forward a report to your handler. We'll look at it again in a day or two and discuss the results,” and leaves.  
  
Clint still can't feel his fingers. He can feel every other cell in his body, aches and pains and bruises and minor scrapes, and the way his ass aches from being stuck in this damned bed. But he can't fell his fingers.  
  
Clint rolls over and talks himself into going to sleep. He can't feel anything when he's asleep. No pain, no fear, no deep cold dread. No loss.  
  
He wakes up and nothing has changed so he turns on the television.  
  
He gives the report a couple of hours to get written. And then gives it a couple of hours to be delivered. Maybe another couple of hours to be read. By the time he figures Coulson has to have seen something it's after dinner and Clint is tired and a little stoned from his meds. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that someone from the Avengers initiative should have at least checked up on him after all this time. He doesn't _want_ to think about it. Doesn't want to in any way acknowledge what it might mean.  
  
He tells the nurse his hand is killing him and even though it's a total lie, because he can't feel his fucking fingers, he swallows the Percs she gives him and passes the fuck out.  
  
His sleep is fraught with dreams that he cannot remember but that leave him exhausted when he wakes up in the morning.  
  
He waits. He waits all day. He waits and he thinks. And he can't make the fact that he is sitting here in the hospital alone with a completely destroyed hand, alone, mean anything except.... he can barely think it. But. He's here. And his arm is useless. And it's probably going to stay that way. And no one has so much as bothered to check and see if he's dead.  
  
Except if he was dead medical would have informed them. Just like they would inform his superiors and his handler and presumably his team if he was.... shit. What's the word? Wrecked? Busted up? Useless.  
  
It's been 24 hours since the doc sent his report and nothing has changed. For the first time Clint let's the thought form fully in his head. Let's himself think it. Clint can't afford to lie to himself and he always knew this would happen if he didn't get killed in the line of duty.  
  
He's being written off.  
  
Not just benched but completely discarded. Of no concern to anyone. He tried to talk himself out of it, but there is the fact of his dominant hand looking like five pounds of ground round. There is the fact of the report that has been sen . And there is the empty hospital room he has been in for a week.  
  
No one has been here. Not even Natasha. Or the Captain. Or Coulson. He can't decide which one is worse. No one from SHIELD has even come to tell him he's done.  
  
There is nothing that has happened to him since he was a teenager that has pissed him off more. He's given his fucking _life_ to SHIELD. Given his friendship and loyalty to his team... to the Avengers, and in just over a week he has apparently been completely _discarded_.  
  
He feels a blast of rage flash through his body and Clint is on his feet struggling into his uniform pants and his boots and a t-shirt and struggling half into his jacket before he's really thinking about what he's doing. He takes off out of the room with the coat draped over his arm arm because it wont fit over his cast and all he can think is that he is going to find out what the fuck!  
  
Two floors down in a fast elevator and one short hallway later and he is standing in the conference room they use for briefings, staring at the familiar oblong table. They are all there, the Avengers. Sitting around the big table talking and shuffling paper and looking at projected images on the wall. Coulson is standing at the front of the room apparently addressing them. Except for the part where they are all staring at him like he's an apparition. Like he shouldn't be here.  
  
Suddenly he can't think of what to say with them all staring at him. “Hey' he says casually because he can't make his mouth spit out a sentence.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Natasha asks, her voice very carefully devoid of any inflection.  
  
“ I – uh. Just.” Clint clears his throat and looks at them. Half the room wont look at him and the other half is openly staring. “I was just checking in. Wanted to know what's going on.”  
  
“ Aren't you on medical leave?” Cap asks, disapproval clear in his tone.  
  
It's feels like a punch to the gut. Clint had half expected to Cap at least to fight for him, not want him gone.  
  
Coulson pipes up then “Barton, it was my understanding that you are supposed to be in a bed down in medical. I suggest you stop being an enormous pain in my ass and get back where we put you.” he cocks and eyebrow and doesn't say anything else.  
  
Oh. Well. He wanted some fucking answers didn't he? And that's an answer isn't it? 'Get back were we put you' is pretty clear. Clint looks at him for a minute, trying to keep the shock, the _hurt_ , off his face.  
  
Hawkeye hasn't seen his handler or his team in a week. His hand is _destroyed_ , the doc just told him he's permanently sidelined. Clint wonders for a second when he got stupid enough to expect this to be any different than anything other time in his life when he had outlived his usefulness.  
  
He knows better, at least he used to. He's only got a place anywhere as long as he's good for something.  
  
  
Clint doesn't say a word, just turns on his heel and walks away. He works on keeping his face blank and his back straight and not slamming the conference room door.  
  
He doesn't go back to medical.  
  
He goes down to his locker instead. He takes his wallet, and his personal side arm and the keys to his bike and walks out.  
  
He stands in front of his bike for a full minute before he realizes there is no way in hell he can ride it anywhere. He walks out into the street and thinks about hailing a cab. Instead he turns west and starts to walk.  
  
  
Clint isn't really aware of the passage of time but it's almost dark by the time he finds himself standing in the bathroom of a bus station. The tracker that was in the back of Clint's neck is in a garbage can and there's a butterfly bandage holding the hole closed. His legs are so tired they are shaking, and he's holding a duffle full of clothes from his apartment, the case holding his oldest bow and a bus ticket for some town he has never heard of. It's as far away as he could get on the money that was in his wallet and still leave himself enough for meals. He's out of the city before the Avengers are done debriefing.  
  
  
****  
  
By the time the Avengers are on to the next emergency Clint is halfway to the state line . The bus smells like piss and his arm hurts so bad it makes him want to cry. He pushes his face into the cold glass and wills sleep to come. He tells himself it's the pain that makes him feel terrible. The pain in his arm. He doesn't think about where he's going or why.  
  
By the time Phil goes to medical to talk to Clint about the report he just finished reading, Clint is in a dive bar in another state, half drunk, trying to pick a fight he can't win, with three hammered meat heads.  
  
He passes out in a grubby hotel bed hours later, piss-drunk and beat to hell. At least now he has a _real_ reason to feel sorry for himself.  
  
He goes under wishing for some of the good drugs they had at medical because every cell in his body fucking hurts. He wishes half-heartedly that he didn't have to wake up in the morning.  
  
“Fuck em all” he mutters not sure who he means, and falls into fitful sleep that brings no rest.  
  
  
He wakes up in the morning. It kind of sucks a lot. He's hungover as fuck, his face hurts, his arm hurts. His hand doesn't hurt. His cast is already dirty and maybe even cracked.  
  
He only has about 80 bucks in his wallet. He needs food and coffee and painkillers. And he needs to get to his stash in Toledo. The one in Trenton is closer but it's also not entirely his; the Ids are from SHIELD and so is the money.  
  
“ Fuck em” he thinks. The one in Toledo has just as much money even though the ID's are a little more loose, but at least it's all his.  
  
He buys Tylenol, finds a diner, and washes down a handful of relief while he waits for hash-browns and eggs to fill the burning hole in his gut and drown his hangover.  
  
The hangover calms down but the hole in his gut stays.  
  
Clint pays his bill and goes to stand on the highway with his thumb out. One of the thousand trucks that goes by gives him a ride. The guy doesn't want to talk. He let's Clint sleep all the way to Ohio.  
  
They make Toledo before dark. Clint thanks the trucker for the ride and heads for his storage locker. His stuff is still there just like he knew it would be, including the bike he can no longer ride. Clint looks longingly at the bike and thinks about wide open road. There is no way in hell he can ride. Not now and from what the doc said maybe not ever. The thought makes something in his chest clench painfully.She is a sweet old Triumph and it pains him to leave her there. The loss of that, the freedom riding has always meant is almost as bad as anything (everything) else he's lost.  
  
Clint pulls the door down on the bike and blinks, pushing everything away. It makes no difference now. It's pointless to dwell, he needs to keep going. Thinking about that beautiful old bike abandoned behind a roll down door won't help.  
  
At least now he has a couple thousand dollars and a name SHIELD has never heard.  
  
He goes to find a place to sleep and not think about the bike, or SHIELD or the Avengers or - or anything. He doesn't dream about Tony's gleeful cackle, or Natasha's smirk or Steve Rogers wicked sense of humor, or Bruce's gentle calm or the way Phil Coulson's eyes light up when Clint makes him laugh. None of that is his any more, it's pointless to dream about it.  
  
****  
  
It's still early spring and it's cold out. Clint's arm hurts like hell though and his fingers on his _good_ hand are starting to go numb.He has been hitch hiking for a few days and it's getting old. He finds a convenience store and a cheap motel. Dinner is Advil and Tylenol (because piggy-backing drugs is a valid strategy when your arm is on fire.it ) He washes down with a cold sandwich and a can (or two) of beer. He falls asleep with the TV on to smother the quiet.  
  
He dreams of empty rooms and his bastard of a brother and wakes up with tears on his cheeks.  
  
In the morning Clint wraps the plastic bag from the convenience store around his cast and stands under the shower until his toes start to prune. Every cell in his body hurts again and there is still a churning hole in his gut. He leaves the beer in the room when he checks out, because seriously enough of that shit. He eats a McRatty's breakfast sandwich sitting in a parking lot.  
  
He walks through streets and toward the center of town. It's early and the neighborhood he is walking through is just stirring. It's a run down looking place with garbage in the street and patchy looking lawns and questionable looking vehicles parked on the curb.  
  
He sees a rusted Honda with a 'for sale' sign.  
  
He pays more than it's worth so the guy will throw in a plate with the pink slip. It will get him some distance before the plate becomes a problem. If he can keep it running. It's a sad looking piece of crap. The car starts immediately when he turns the key.  
  
Clint turns south and west. He wants a place that's little warmer and a lot drier. He has lived in New York a long time. It's time for something different.  
  
****  
  
He drives until he feels like stopping. It takes two weeks.  
  
****  
  
He doesn't know the name of the city he stops in until he has been there for three days. It's warm and dry, right on the edge of the desert. His motel room is clean and spartan, the bed is comfortable. He rents by the week and sleeps a lot. He doesn't really give a shit where he is. It's just a place to stop.  
  
He changes the dressings on his hand himself and that's okay for a while. But what passes for skin on his hand is dry and tight and red. And then his wrist starts to swell in the cast. His head feels heavy and stuffed. His face feels hot and his eyes water for no reason and he thinks it's time to either give in and let nature takes it's course or get some help.  
  
****  
  
Turns out he doesn't have it in him to just lay down and die.  
  
****  
  
He walks to a clinic a mile from his motel because he is too fucked up to safely drive.  
  
There's a pretty, dark eyed doctor who's name tag says "Dr. P Tur." She clicks her tongue and tries to convince him to go into hospital. He says no and when she pushes harder Clint stands up and starts to pull on his shirt.  
  
“Wait. WAIT!” she tells him and places a hand carefully on his arm. “Fine. No hospital, okay? Just- wait. At least let me put you on an IV for a couple of hours, get you a good shot of antibiotics and fluids. Then I can write you a scrip. You're sick Mr. Phillips and if we don't do something you are going to get sicker,” she waits for him to answer.  
  
Clint thinks about his options. He might be utterly fucked and have no clue what to do about what used to be his life but now feels like an extended train wreck. Clint isn't ready to quit, to just lay down and die. Not yet. But he is really fucking sore, everything still hurts. Everything. The pretty dark haired doctor is right and he knows it.  
  
He nods and unbuttons his shirt.  
  
Clint lays on the exam table and tries to keep his mind from drifting to what he no longer has or the people he hasn't lost because he never really had most of them in the first place.  
  
He thinks instead about where he should go next. What part of the country he hasn't ever had the time to really stop and look at. He thinks about the Grand Canyon and Joshua trees and Galveston island and Hatteras Bite and he wonders in a haze if Coulson has ever been to any of them.  
  
Clint is tired, is the thing. He doesn't know if he has the energy to drive that far. He thinks about getting a job pumping gas or flipping burgers and just melting into the grain of a country he has only ever passed over. As he falls unwilling into sleep, there in the clinic, he thinks again he is not ready to quit, to just give up and die.  
  
  
He blinks open eyes gone gummy from sleep and illness. The exam room comes slowly into focus and his body is heavy and slow. It feels late and Clint wonders why he's still here, why the doc let him sleep. He turns his head to look at the IV and his breath freezes solid in his throat.  
  
There is a chair beside the exam table and Phil Coulson is sitting in the chair staring at Clint. He doesn't look happy but Clint can't really care about that right now because he just looks so _good_ sitting there, even though Phil also looks tired as shit. His suit is wrinkled, he has stubble on his face and Coulson is hunched over like he's in pain, protecting and injury.  
  
“Are you okay?” Clint asks genuinely concerned. He has never seen Coulson look this bad unless injured.  
  
The snort Clint gets in answer... well. It actually kind of hurts. Clint has no idea why Phil is here but Clint's pretty sure he didn't come all this way to make Clint feel like shit. That's what it does though, that sharp dismissive snort, as if concern for a friend makes him an idiot.  
  
The inevitable thought “You aren't really friends though right?” makes it even worse.  
  
Clint gives up then and looks away. What ever this is, anything Clint might or might not feel is pointless. He closes his eyes and tries to let everything fall away again. More sleep would be awesome.  
  
Except then the doc comes in and asks “How's he doing?"  
  
“He was awake for a bit.” Coulson tells her.  
  
She comes over and messes with the IV for a second then takes it out. It hurts and he can't help the hiss that escapes him.  
  
“ How are you feeling Mr. Phillips?”  
  
Clint grunts and doesn't look at her. “Ready to leave.” Clint says and moves to sit up. He forgets and pushes up with his right hand and even after almost a month the pain than shoots up his arm knocks him back “Fuck!” Clint curls around the arm, wanting to protect the injury and protect himself and be any where except where Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD, and almost friend can see him blink away tears of frustration and bone deep pain. Clint feels like he is one sharp blow from falling the fuck apart. He's in pain and he's sick and his heart feels like it can barely keep beating under the weight of loss.  
  
When the pain subsides somewhat Clint lays back, drapes his uninjured arm across his eyes and tries to talk himself out of crying like a kid. He was fine before! Tired and a little sick but nothing like this. His skin too tight and his face too hot and everything he doesn't know how to feel pushed up to the surface where he can't ignore it.  
  
He keeps his arm where it is, hoping Phil and the doc both will just fuck off and let him get himself together. Maybe make a clean get away. Find some place dark and quiet to sleep for a hundred years.  
  
It's quiet for a bit and the Coulson says “You're AWOL,” in a tone so bland he might be talking about the weather.  
  
Clint barks out a bitter laugh he couldn't have kept back to save his life, but he doesn't uncover his eyes. Of course that is what this is about. It's not like Coulson came for _him_. He's just here to collect a SHIELD asset. Clint makes no effort to quell the bitterness that makes him feel.  
  
  
The doctor comes in again and says she has to close up the clinic. Clint tries to sit up again but this time Coulson's arm is behind his shoulder and Clint just has to suck it up and accept the help, to avoid hurting himself again. He is stupidly grateful when Coulson leaves him to get his shirt on without offering to help. Clint isn't sure what's left of his dignity could take it if Coulson helped him get dressed like he was too fucking _feeble_ to do it for himself.  
  
Clint can get his feet into his boots but forget lacing them up. He hasn't mastered doing it one handed. Most days it hurts to much to try. In fact standing up isn't really all that great either and Clint comes to the conclusion he might be sicker than he thought... and just the tiniest bit fucked.  
  
When he can stand without immediately falling on his face Clint opens the door. The doctor and Coulson are standing there waiting for him.  
  
“These are for you.” The doc hands him a small white bag. “There are some written instructions and a list of things to look out for. I filled your partner in on the specifics.”  
  
Clint wants to tell her Coulson isn't his partner but what would be the point? He's never going to see her again and he doesn't feel like answering any questions about it. Clint just takes the bag and quietly says “ Thank You.”  
  
She locks the door behind them when they leave. He guesses he should be grateful she went so far out of her way for him, keeping the clinic open well past closong time.  
  
  
It takes Clint a minute to orient himself. He draws in a breath of clean desert air and turns toward his hotel. Coulson arm flashes out and stops him from turning away completely. Against his better judgment Clint looks up to see what Coulson wants.  
  
“My car is right here.” Coulson says with a nod toward the curb. Clint looks and for a moment he doesn't see it, the boring sedan he's expecting. He doesn't see it because it's not there.  
  
Instead Coulson steps toward a battered Jeep with scratched paint and Clint stumbles around in his own head, tripping over 'what the fuck?' before he realizes he is looking at Coulson's personal vehicle. He had seen a picture of Coulson standing beside it, the picture has been sitting on a shelf n Coulson's office for at least 5 years. Coulson is ridiculously proud of all the unbelievable places he has driven the damned thing.  
  
It makes no sense at all . There is no way this can be right. Driving a personal vehicle on SHIELD business breaks _at least_ 4 separate SOP's that Clint can name. It's just... Coulson wouldn't.  
  
“Come on” Coulson says to him , a hand on Clint's shoulder urging him toward the jeep.  
  
“That's your Jeep” Clint says. He sounds stupid and slow. He is. Stupid and slow and too damned tired to walk the mile back to his room. He gets in when Coulson opens the door for him and sits there quietly, trying to figure out what this means.  
  
Coulson doesn't ask him to do up his seat belt. They don't say a word and it takes less than 5 minutes before they are parked in front of Clint's room.  
  
Clint is not the least bit surprised that Coulson knows exactly where he is staying. It's just one more thing he doesn't want to deal with. This has been long-ass, shitty day capping off a long-ass, shitty few weeks and Clint just wants to crawl into a hole somewhere. He is too tired to figure shit out. Still. He has to know what this is.  
  
“What are you doing here Coulson?” he asks, voice flat and tired. Clint's not even sure he _wants_ the answer, but he's tired and hurt, sick as shit and fucked up. He can't be bothered trying to guess what the hell this is. Best to just let Coulson lay it out for him, then he can deal and move on.  
  
“ What are you doing _here_ Barton?” Coulson demands and it's just one more thing Clint is too fucking tired to decipher.  
  
“Finding a place to sleep for a hundred years or so” Clint says, pushing the door of the Jeep open not really giving a shit if it makes every bone in his hand hurt. At least he can feel something. If he gave it any thought he'd call it an improvement.  
  
Clint walks the 20 or so feet to his motel room, opens the door, kicks off his boots, kicks at the door to close it and crawls onto the bed. His eyes are closing as he sinks into the mattress and he is asleep by the time he is sprawled out. Too tired to give another single thing another moment of thought, Clint slips into the only escape from pain and disappointment he has, and sleeps.  
  
* * ***  
  
The light is wrong when he opens his eyes and it confuses him, at first. Clint groans and rolls over looking for his phone, to find the time and explain why the hell he is awake when he has not had nearly enough sleep.  
  
His phone is easy to find. It's plugged into the charger on the small stand by the bed. Right beside where Phil Coulson was sitting watching him.  
  
He looks pretty annoyed.  
  
Clint has a moment to think “Fuck you. What have _you_ got to be so pissy about?” before Coulson hands him a glass of water. Clint sits up still mostly in a sleep daze and takes the water which is immediately followed by two pills.  
  
Clint just stares at them.  
  
“Antibiotics. Take them so your fucking hand doesn't _rot off_!”  
  
'Yup' Clint thinks 'definitely annoyed.'  
  
Coulson never swears. Unless he is completely pissed the fuck off and at the end of his rope. Clint swallows down a spiteful thought instead of letting it out to hurt both of them. Meanly glad he is not the only one inconvenienced by a crushed hand.  
  
  
He het gets up, goes to take a piss, ignores Coulson, and goes back to sleep.  
  
****  
He sleeps a lot. A lot _more_. The pills make his stomach sick so he gets new ones. Well technically Coulson gets them because Clint can barely move without puking. For a couple of days he is glad Coulson is there.  
  
When he feels better he goes back to wishing he was alone again. He can't really make his next move with Coulson sitting there waiting for something. Which is the real problem, the fact that Coulson just watches bad television, fucks around on his laptop, goes out to get them take-out. And waits.  
  
By day four Clint can't take it anymore. He is shit at quiet, stoic, forbearance. Losing his shit and yelling is much more Clint's style.  
  
“What the fuck, Coulson!” is how he starts, getting right to the yelling.  
  
Coulson looks up from his solitaire game and blinks. It kind of makes Clint want to kick him.  
  
“Seriously.” Clint tells him.  
  
Coulson just looks at him.  
  
“Seriously, what the hell are you waiting for?” Clint lets every ounce of his annoyance bleed into his voice.  
  
Coulson cocks and eyebrow “You.” he says and goes back to clicking electronically generated cards.  
  
“Me.” Clint says. “to do _what_ exactly?” He demands.  
  
“Get your head out of your ass.” The game he's been playing lets out an electronically generated cheer and Clint can see the fireworks graphic from where he is standing. By Clint's count it's something like 93 straight games of Spider Coulson has won.  
  
Clint looks at him and waits for further explanation but Coulson just hits enter and starts game number 94.  
  
Clint huffs and turns on the TV, finds a really loud stock car race, because Coulson hates watching motor sports. Clint watches the stupid cars fly around the stupid track while the stupid announcer drones on like an idiot, an realizes... stock car racing kind of really sucks when there is no beer to go with it.  
  
Clint starts power surfing channels just because that is another thing that annoys the shit out off Coulson.  
  
Coulson smirks and keeps clicking away at his game without looking up.  
  
Fine. Fuck him. Clint is a fucking sniper and he deals with annoyance and boredom _for a living._  
  
Shit.  
  
Except he's not anymore, is he? Now he is just some guy who used to have good aim.  
  
Clint's chest gets tight. Holy shit is he ever sick of this just sneaking up on him and slamming into him again and again.  
  
His chest aches and his hand fucking hurts and his eyes are burning and it's really hard to see the point of anything right now and the fact that one of the few men in the world he respects and admires is sitting across the room watching from the corner of his eye means that Clint can't just curl up on the bed and fucking bawl. He gets up and slams his way into the bathroom instead. He still can't bawl his eyes out because, hello machismo bullshit and self respect are kind of his deal.  
  
He can stick his head under a cold tap until he feels less like crying though.  
  
So he does that.  
  
When he goes back out in the room Coulson is gone and Clint thinks for second he finally gave up and left like anyone else would. Then he remembers it's Phil Coulson the stubbornest motherfucker to ever put on a tie.  
  
Also his computer is still here.  
  
And there is a post-it on the TV.  
  
“Went to get food. Take your meds and I'll get you ONE beer. ONE. P”  
He's only gone an hour. Clint has his shit the rest of the way together when Coulson gets back.  
  
True to his word he has a shit load of food and one can of beer. It's not even that imported crap. Clint wonders briefly where he found Pabst Blue Ribbon out here.  
  
Clint dutifully eats every last scrap of his dinner and counts the remaining antibiotics out to prove he took his dose, and makes grabby hands when Phil pulls the ice cold can out of the rooms mini-fridge. It's cheap and too hoppy and a little bitter and completely cheap, mid-west, perfect. Just the way Clint likes it. The buzz he gets makes it completely worth the fact that it's just one can and it's empty too soon.  
  
He passes out early and for the first time in weeks doesn’t dream.  
  
  
He wakes up in the morning nauseous and head-achey but that proves to be small potatoes when compared to the fact that Coulson is sitting by the door with his bags packed when Clint crawls out of the shower.  
  
It looks to Clint like the title for most stubborn asshole in the room belongs to Clint Barton. It doesn't feel much like a victory.  
  
In fact it feels like one more loss.  
  
Clint stands there staring with his jeans half done up, his t-shirt stuck to damp shoulders, and something suspiciously like regret rolling around in his stomach.  
  
  
“Get your stuff and let's get moving. It's a long drive back”  
  
Clint stares ant him and blinks “Uh? What?”  
  
“ I am sick of this game Barton. Get your shit together.”  
  
“With all due respect sir.” Clint tells him “Screw you.” and walks away.  
  
“I don't fucking think so Barton!” Coulson says and steps in front of him. “ I have had enough of this. Get your crap packed and get in the car or I will tranquilize your ass and _make_ you!”  
  
If Clint was more a bigger coward, or smarter, he would take a step back. Because Coulson? Is pissed.  
  
No one ever accused Clint Barton of being super smart though, which is why instead of taking a step back he makes the smart asses choice and says “ _Tranquillizer_? You forget to pack your taser?”  
  
He is still smirking like an idiot when the tranq dart hits him in the neck. He has time to think “Fuck I didn't even see him fire” before he keels over. Coulson catches him before he hits the floor.  
  
  
  
He wakes up bleary eyed and head-achy (fucking, again!) in the car sometime after dark.  
Coulson hands him a Gatorade and keeps driving.  
“Why are you doing this?” Clint says into the dark window so he doesn't have to look at Coulson.  
  
“You're AWOL.” Coulson replies giving him nothing real back.  
  
Damn it.  
  
“So what?”  
  
“ There is no way SHIELD is going to let one their best assets just fall off. That makes no sense to anyone.”  
  
“Coulson.” Clint says frustration giving his voice an edge.  
  
“Barton.” his former handler fires right back.  
  
Clint grits his teeth and prepares to have it out before they get close to the New York state line. “Sir. I appreciate your... loyalty. I do. But the fact is-” he swallows the words down and starts again, trying to keep the bitterness out of this conversation. He can't let any of it get to him if he is going to convince Phil to drop this and let him get on with making some other life for himself. A life other than the one he just lost. Clint swallows it all down and starts again.  
  
“The fact is... I am no damned good any more. I- I can't be an Avenger. I can't even be a SHIELD agent with only one working hand. I am a sniper. A sniper who can't hold a gun.” he takes a breath and forces out some of the hardest words he has ever had to say “I can't fire a bow.” He can feel that admission like a blow to the chest. It steals his breath.  
  
But it's time to get fucking real and stop wallowing. It's time to stop whatever bullshit Coulson is trying to cook up and get a fucking grip.  
  
Clint may never be able to use his hand again for _anything_ never mind draw the string back on a bow. There is no place for him now. He has to make a new one.  
  
The best he can hope for back in New York is loosing his mind behind a desk while trying to avoid the pitying looks of people he used to be able to hold his own with. The thought of seeing Tony or Steve look at him like he's broken makes Clint want to smash his head against something.  
  
The only place he could hold his own now? He might be able to get a job as a mall cop. And there aren’t any malls in the five boroughs.  
  
Time to move the fuck on. He wishes it was going to be easier to convince Coulson, who is one of the most dogged and stupidly loyal people Clint has ever met in his fucking life.  
  
Clint has had plenty of time to think about this. He's second guessed himself and tried to think of any other way but there he hasn't found one. It's better if he just retires and calls it a career. At least he had the chance to do some real good in the world. It is something a man can be proud of.  
  
He tells it all to Coulson, trying to make him see sense. He lays it out as calmly as he can, working hard to keep his emotions in check and to keep the despair he can barely admit to from coloring his argument.  
  
He draws a deep breath when he is done and waits for Coulson to stop the car and admit that Clint is right and everyone is better off if he just moves on.  
  
  
“Bullshit.” Coulson says and keeps driving.  
  
“ I'm sorry? But how is anything I said less than the truth?! Who the fuck wants a sniper **who can't shoot**!” Clint is getting sick of this shit! They have been going back and forth over this long enough!  
  
“Damn it Barton! There is more to you than your aim.”  
  
“Name ONE thing!” Clint roars back, triumphant and angry, and scared Coulson won't be able to.  
  
Coulson looks at him like he is the slowest kid in kindergarten.  
  
“ Your mind.” he says. And takes a breath and keeps going.  
  
“Your strength. Your wit. Your toughness. Your stubbornness. Your Integrity. Your decency.” Coulson looks right at him and says “Your heart.”  
  
Those words or ones like them stole something from Clint once. He can see this is Coulson trying to give them back.  
  
“Just. Give it a chance Clint. Give it some time.” Coulson asks “What ever happens You already have a life, and people and a place. None of that changes because you got hurt. Please. Just give it a chance.”  
  
And the thing is Phil means it, every single word. Clint can hear that in his voice. And after everything that they've been though. As friends and colleagues, and Avengers Clint cannot deny Phil Coulson when he says something he means this much. They have known each other too long for anything but complete honesty.  
  
“Please Clint. Just come back and let the doctors do their best and then make a decision based on what ever progress you make.”  
  
Clint can feel himself waiver and apparently so can Phil.  
  
“Six months. Give it six months. And then we'll re-evaluate.”  
  
Six months. It seems like hardly anything and an eternity all at once.  
  
“What the hell will I do for six months if I can't shoot shit?”  
  
They both hear the resigned yes in the question.  
  
Clint cannot deny Phil Coulson one of the few things he has ever asked Clint for. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part Clint rarely lets have a voice, the part that is about Phil and what he really means to CLint, that voice peipes up and reminds him he can't really deny Coulson _anything_.  
  
****  
  
The drive back is …. weird. And long, and for the first leg fraught with an undercurrent of tension that keeps Clint's mouth firmly shut and Coulson's music turned up just a little too high for conversation. Clint can't help but be grateful for that.  
  
He sleeps mostly. Coulson does the driving and stops regularly for bad gas station coffee, that Clint uses to wash down pills when ever Coulson tells him too. By the time Coulson pulls into a motel parking lot Clint is exhausted and strangely wired up. Too much inactivity coupled with the infection sliding through his body and the words that keep pushing at the back of his teeth, until all he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep until every fucked up thing in his head and his life and his betrayer body if fixed.  
  
Instead Coulson gets two doubles and demands Clint eat and shower and watch bad television. Clint is so grateful that Phil doesn't demand words that Clint kind of wants to cry. He has indulged in enough self pity over the last few weeks, he doesn’t want to open his mouth to answer a question and have his secrets spill out instead.  
  
So they watch Top Shot and Supernanny and Clint laughs briefly at their respective choices. Clint eats mediocre Chinese delivery with a fork he can barely hold and feels a brief flash of bitterness that chopsticks are completely beyond him.  
  
He falls asleep watching Jon Stewart and the only question Coulson had asked him all night was if he wanted extra spring rolls.  
  
Clint sleeps all night and his dreams are filled with the feeling of drawing and releasing a bowstring.  
  
****  
  
New York looks exactly the same.  
  
Clint realizes with a shock he's only been gone about a month. Most of that time had passed in a sort of a haze without, he realizes now, a lot of clear thought. But it had seemed a lot longer.  
  
He pulls in a deep breath and works hard to keep it from turning into anything as fucked up as a sigh, but. He has to admit it feels good to be back despite the neck deep uncertainty he's facing. He doesn't have a clue what his future is going to look like, but Clint guesses it was always meant to be here, in New York.  
  
And that maybe Phil Coulson was always going to be in that future somewhere. One way or another, in some capacity. Some people just work their way into you and you never lose them. The idea makes him think of Natasha.  
  
He feels a small frisson of apprehension over laid with anticipation. She is going to be pissed. but maybe she will also be glad to see him.  
  
  
****  
  
Coulson insists Clint go right to SHEILD medical and get checked out. He doesn't ignore the involuntary curl of apprehension in his gut. He doesn't give in to it either. He walks to the elevators with a sure step that doesn't let on a damned thing. He mostly ignores the ache in his shooting arm, in favor of waiting on what the docs have to say.  
  
****  
  
What the docs say is 'maybe. If you're careful and lucky and patient' _maybe_ they can fix this. Clint has never been lucky, or particularly careful or even a little bit patient. Only now he has to be, if he wants any of what he had back. His skill, his job, his friends, his life.  
  
He nods when the doc says it will take months. Clint has nothing but time bow and nothing left to lose.  
  
****  
  
Natasha punches him in the face when she sees him.  
  
And then she pulls him into a hug and makes him feel like utter crap by leaving a damp spot form her tears on his shirt.  
  
She forgives him for his stupidity a lot quicker than he forgives himself.  
  
****  
  
Tony gives him a key to a suite in Avengers Tower. The stuff he had abandoned in his apartment is already there waiting for him.  
  
Tony is there when Clint opens the door and sees his stuff. He looks like he is ready for a fight.  
  
Clint just says thank you and tries not to feel like a bigger asshole than he already does.  
  
****  
  
Bruce looks up from his cereal the first time Clint uses the team facilities on the top floor and says "Welcome back" smiling like he really genuinely means it.  
  
****  
  
Steve looks glad to see him and a little sad but he's also the one to drive him to all his Dr's appointments. Clint wonders once in a while if Steve got the gig because no one thinks he would dare disappoint the captain again.  
  
Who ever came up with strategy obviously knows their shit. It works perfectly and Clint never misses a single appointment.  
  
It's Steve who talks to Clint, while waiting for one of those appointments, about why he was alone the first days after he was injured. Steve talks about fighting one fight after another after another until he is so tired he can barely move. Clint stops him cold when Steve tries to apologize for those days Clint spent thinking no one cared, when in fact they where all so close to being over-run they could barely spare a thought for their own lives.  
Clint is left feeling like a selfish asshole but has the brains to keep that gem to himself.  
  
****  
  
Thor is only around once in a while but he makes a point of taking Clint aside and telling him in a quiet voice that he knows Hawkeye to be one of the most steadfast warriors he has ever known and that injury could not ever diminish his worth to them all. Clint endures it because he knows without a doubt that Thoe means every word  
  
****  
  
There are surgeries. Surgeries and pain and frustration and progress so slow it's barely noticeable. Still. It's progress.  
  
He spends a lot of time alone, because the Avengers are good at what they do and the world needs them. but never it's never anything like the first awful days when he first got injured.  
  
Every bad guy everywhere is still trying to flatten New York but now Clint has a place at Avengers Tower instead of being isolated in medical.  
  
He can't fight, can barely do up his fly or hold a cup of coffee but he isn't alone trying to figure out what to do. He knows what to do now. Go to PT, avoid overworking his arm, never "sneak off" again or Natasha will thoroughly kick his ass.  
  
And then there's Phil.Coulson never falters, he is always there and never loses faith. He is solid and dependable and Clint is truly embarrassed that he ever doubted the man's belief in him.  
He never tries to make Clint talk but he is always around when Clint needs to get out of his own head. Before he was injured they were friends by default and the circumstance of their existences as elite agents.  
  
Now, it's more.  
  
Clint can barely fathom that Coulson dropped off the grid and risked Fury's wrath to come after Clint outside SHIELD channels. It seems terribly out of character for a man who is always harping about paper work and protocols and proper procedure.  
When Clint says as much to Nat she looks at him like he is the dumbest thing she  
has ever seen.  
  
It makes him think he might want to put a little more thought into what Coulson's motivation was. It seems like a lot of effort to put in for one more asset, for a guy who is ultimately replaceable.  
  
Clint says as much to him one evening, after a day filled with pain and frustration while watching the rest of the Avengers get literally pounded in to the pavement while Clint sits in a sterile white room waiting to get stitches taken out, again.  
  
Clint snaps "I don't know why you even bothered to go get me! You could have found someone else to watch their backs, instead leaving them open while I sit on my ass! Why don't you guys just _replace_ me!"  
  
He's pissed off and frustrated and still coming down from the rush of fear he felt watching Cap get stepped on by a metal monstrosity that weighed tons, and seeing Iron Man get slammed hard enough to send him almost into orbit. Natasha is still in Medical getting stitches in her back. Clint didn't even break a sweat, just watched it all play out on CNN. It was the most useless he could ever remember feeling.  
  
Apparently Coulson hasn't had the best day ever either. He looks at Clint with so much _feeling_ on his face Clint can't begin to interpret it all. He doesn't say a word though, just stands up and walks out of the room. Clint is still sitting there with his mouth hanging open when the elevator dings and Coulson steps into it without looking at him.  
  
He's still sitting there completely dumb-founded when he hears a familiar throat clearing behind him. Cap, ever polite announces his presence before coming in. Clint is so uncomfortable and confused he's sure it's palpable from across the room.  
  
He clearly missed something here but can't for the life of him parse out what it is.  
  
Steve comes in and tilts his head toward the sofa wordlessly asking permission to sit. Clint nods and Cap sits. He clearly has something to say.  
  
"Clint. I think I have failed as your Captain." Steve says to him.  
  
Clint looks at his friend even more confused, now. "I don't see how?" Clint tells him.  
  
Cap has done every thing possible to make sure Clint recovers.  
  
"I failed to make something absolutely clear to you, Clint" Steve pauses for a moment looking Clint right in the eye. The guy is practically oozing sincerity. " You are _not_ replaceable. Not to the Avengers, not to your friends. And I suspect especially not to Agent Coulson."  
  
This is... it's- huh. Clint is kind of drawing a blank. Sure he knows the Avengers are his friends, they have made that plain as day since Coulson dragged him back. Each of them taking the time to tell him that and find out what they could do to help. But this is... this is something else.  
  
"Cap. I'm just a guy. Not. Not like all of you. Sure I got good aim all that shit but so do a lot of guys. Marksmen aren't anywhere near as rare as super soldiers, gods, billionaires and geniuses. Or Nat. She gets her own category because.. well. Natasha. Me? I'm just some guy!" He really doesn't get it.  
  
"NO! No you are not! Just some guy. You are an _Avenger_! It means you are the best, just like the rest of us. And you are our friend and we care about you no matter what! Even if you never drew another bowstring you bring things to this team we can't just go out and pull off a shelf somewhere! Stop selling yourself short, Hawkeye. Certainly none of us do. Least of all Phil Coulson." He looks at Clint clearly gauging whether Hawkeye is processing his words or not. What ever he sees must satisfu the captain because he nods and gets to his feet, leaving the room without another word.  
  
Clint sits there thinking about all of it, Coulson's reaction and Steve's response, a long time before he finally goesto find his bed. It's still hours after that before he sleeps.  
  
  
****  
  
  
Things were different after that, mostly inside his own head. He has to find a way to reconcile his current limitations with who and what he had been pre-injury. For the first time he considers how to fit back into his own life, if where he is today is as far as he gets.  
  
He spends hours sitting in front of the wall of windows in the towers conference room looking out across the city that is the only home he has ever had, holding his bow and considering everything. All his options and talents and possibilities.  
  
It turns out not to be as hopeless as he has been telling himself. He may never draw a bow string again but he has more than just that. He can still see farther than anyone he knows. Can see his way through any fight in a way that is unique to him and Clint realizes... the way he sees things is his real talent. His bow... his bow has always been his first real love and the most natural outlet for that talent but it is not the only thing he can do.  
  
He thinks maybe he owes Coulson an apology and a lot of thanks for seeing that.  
  
  
****  
  
  
Clint gets his last cast off seven months after he was injured. His shooting arm is as skinny and unmuscled as it was before he hit puberty. There are scars up and down his forearm and his fingers are sore but not stiff. His thin wrist and callous free fingers are a beautiful sight. He goes to tell Coulson the good news letting the big grin he is sporting speak for him. Coulson grins back and then pulls him into a hug.  
  
It's weeks before he will be able to pull a bow string yet, but the doctors have all assured him it can and will happen now.  
  
" _Thank you for this_." Clint tells Phil meaning it as much as he has ever meant anything.  
  
"You did all the work." Coulson tells him.  
  
Clint can see a faint blush on the man's cheeks and it occurs to Clint that this might be his moment. The moment he has been waiting for that he thought would never come. His moment to tell Phil Coulson a certain truth.  
  
"Yeah, well... You're the one who dragged me back and made me. So. Thanks for that."  
  
He grins at Coulson and lets the trade mark Hawkeye boldness take him over and says `You should have dinner with me." He feels the grin on his face and makes no effort to hide how happy the idea makes him.  
  
But Coulson, he looks pained and says " As a thank you." it is half a question. There is discomfort and a low grade unhappiness in his tone.  
  
"As a _date_." Clint tells him firmly and waits to hear Coulson's answer.  
  
Phil looks shocked and then pleased in quick succession. It's all the answer Clint needs. "I know a great little Italian place near the tower."  
  
"That sounds great. " Phil tells him "Really great."  
  
Clint couldn't agree more.  
  
  
****  
  
  
One year and and three days after he's injured Clint Barton straps on Hawkeye's arm guards and follows his fellow Avengers onto a Quinjet to go kick some Doombot ass.  
  
He has a huge grin on his face for most of the fight even when he is getting his face stitched up from where he used it to bounce off a wall.  
  
It's a great day.

 


End file.
